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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24283555">so, she said, "what's the problem baby?"</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs'>wajjs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental Plot, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, Crack Treated Seriously, Humor, Inspired by Shrek (Movies), M/M, Not Beta Read, Shrek References, Unreliable Narrator</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:36:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,021</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24283555</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>  "You know," Dick grins and Jason's already regretting being able to hear, "this is - you're kinda like Shrek."</p><p>  He doesn't ponder on his answer, simply snarls and opens his mouth to say: "Fiona's more my type, asshole."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jason Todd/Slade Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>188</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>so, she said, "what's the problem baby?"</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i'm trying both to be funny and beat my writer's block caused by burn out so here, have this</p><p>(because of those reasons this is far far far from my usual writing style)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>so, she said: </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"what's the problem, baby?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p>  All things have a beginning. This has one, too, but its clarity is unnecessary, really. It's a classical tale of one thing leading to another, yes, followed by a hefty dose of things that might as well happen. Like every story that has ever been composed, all with the same words but in different order and with different resonances of meaning. Sometimes it's meaning a, or b; on the rarest occasions, c.</p><p>  All stories have an <em> incipit, </em> which is a fancier way of saying 'a start'. He could very well tell you what that is. He could explain how he came in here and how he found the other, or take it further back to that one faithfull meeting that set the hands of fate's clock in motion. Yes, he could. But it's a hassle, isn't it? And he owes no one an explanation. What is no one? A fucking cop?</p><p>  He runs into the room the only way a person with a demon on their back can run: with a whole lot of speed and manic energy. And with an inner steady string of the nearly universal word of denial, everyone's favorite, the famous and overused <em> no. </em> (He pronounces it like <em>fuck</em> because he's from Crime Alley.)</p><p>  And while it might be true that the demon after him is only so on a metaphorical level, he still very much does not want to deal with that bastard any more than he already has on this particular given day. There are other moments for finesse and other opportunities for buttering up the air. But he's getting astray. Here's the run of things as they matter right now:</p><p>  He has infiltrated a big ass house, an honest to god mansion that borders on wannabe castle with an actual tower. Of course the ones inside the big ass house had hired muscle to keep everything shiny and dandy, and he had foolishly assumed among said muscle he wouldn't find anything of the sturdier kind. Today, he happens to have a keen ability of being magnanimously, fantastically, utterly, completely, irrevocably, incredibly - undeniably <em> wrong. </em></p><p>  Nevermind that. Everybody makes mistakes and he's nothing if not a master at improvisation. Luck had tossed him a flimsy rope when the sturdy muscle awaiting halfway through the spiral staircase just happened to be someone he knows oh so well, oh so intimately well. Of course, it doesn't mean it is any easier, it's simply that he doesn't get as pissed off fighting someone like… him.</p><p>  A show of sleuth and one quickly applied needle, he's got hunky muscle laying down on the steps and he isn't loitering for even half a second because that guy burns through any substance faster than the current guinness record for speed while running. Whoever happens to have that condecoration. Not like he truly cares.</p><p>  What's important is that he gets to the room at the very top and he's feeling a mean case of sweat building up at the back of his neck. It's a very gross feeling. His hair clumps there because he hasn't had the time to trim it again.</p><p>  Quickly shutting the door and locking it before also blocking it with whatever's closest, he turns around and sees-</p><p>  "Nightwing?," he wheezes out, eyes glued to the figure chained from wrists and ankles to the wall.</p><p>  This is when he updates his mental files with: <em> fuck this, fuck my life, fuck him, fuck fuck. </em></p><p>  "Hood," motherfucking Dick Grayson croaks out, clears his throat once and offers a sheepish smile. "Get me out of these?"</p><p>  The request is unnecessary, of course, though he guesses it's not too unsurprising because he <em> could </em> leave the other to deal with whatever mess he got himself in. Ah, but he wouldn't be able to live with that if he went for that option and this is quickly building up to be a confusing amount of <em> he</em>. There are ways around it, like the following:</p><p>  Jason huffs, scanning around the room for something that might help before he settles on using his guns and simply shooting to hell the locks. He doesn't miss the way Dick grows stiff and eerily still (because even while put on display <em> like that </em> there had remained an undercurrent of innate movement), but Dick also lets it roll off him nearly immediately and offers Jason a crooked smile.</p><p>  "How long have you even been here?," Jason asks as he repeats the actions with the locks of the wrist cuffs, doesn't bother to catch Dick because, in all honesty, he seems to be in better shape than Jason himself.</p><p>  "A couple of hours, give and take," he lands with grace because of course he does, turns his hands this way and that to get feeling back in them.</p><p>  "Great," there's noise coming from the stairs and <em> oh right, angry assassin, </em> "hey, we gotta scram," with that, he rushes to the window, kicks it open, before he goes to collect what he actually came in here for.</p><p>  "The stairs-"</p><p>  "Nope," Jason pockets the small device, puts pressure into the sound with a smile, "come on, damsel in distress. There is one very angry Deathstroke coming after me and I'd rather not fight him again." </p><p>  The effect that name has is immediate and Dick is jumping into action, already half of his body is out of the window.</p><p>  "Isn't it supposed to be, you know, the good guy doing the saving?," he says and he probably thinks it's a damn good joke. It is not.</p><p>  "Don't know 'bout that, dingus," Jason huffs, climbing down after the other is some distance away. He's infinitely grateful for his helmet and body armour because if Slade decides to go shooty, at the very least he's got protection from bullets and a little bit of cushion for when he goes splat! after being hit by said bullets.</p><p>  He <em> hopes </em> Slade does not feel like going shooty today. Jason is not a fan of going splat! "One way or another, you got the short end of the stick. And it keeps getting shorter!"</p><p>  Even while climbing down a tower, Dick's got the disappointed but not surprised glare down to the dot in the i. "What do you mean?"</p><p>  "Well, for starters," he chances a quick glance up, to the open window, and notices a worrying lack of one-eyed bastard. Fuck, is he waiting downstairs? Or worse, is he- but. But? He's getting distracted, he's talking, right. "I sure as fuck ain't the good guy in this narrative. And this ain't a goddamned rescue."</p><p>  "But you're helping me escape!," Dick laughs, the sound clear even when it travels down and not up because the world just works like that.</p><p>  "Pure coincidence," he says, moving just a tad faster.</p><p>  "Then why are you here? For that thing you stole?," they are reaching the base of the tower and here, too, there's a confusing lack of guards. Jason knows he took down a big number of them but come on, this is too easy and things with them never are. Something is up and it's not dog.</p><p>  "I didn't steal anything!," he defends himself even when Dick's not too far off. In the distance they hear shouts and running steps. <em> There. </em> Not so strange anymore. Thank you.</p><p>  "I saw you!," landing on the grass, Dick has the balls to cross his arms at him and look affronted. Jason considers ditching him to handle the thugs (and Slade). Once again, his prone to guilt conscience wins.</p><p>  ('Prone to guilt' is an understatement. Jason's default mode two days out of five, weekend excluded, is guilt. The times during those two days without him feeling guilty are outliers and they shouldn't be counted.)</p><p>  Definitely bothered, he jumps the final distance to the ground and rolls as he falls to soften his landing. He stands up next and his knees don't hurt because he landed the proper way and not like a douchebag that shows off while pretending to be some great hero. (You want fucked up kneecaps? That's how you get fucked up kneecaps, landing with your whole weight on a single knee. Damn amateurs.)</p><p>  (He knows it hurts from first person experience.)</p><p>  "Come on, let's get out of here. That fucker is surely chasing after me and I'm <em> so </em> not handing our asses to him," usually he would've loved a good brawl but this time he ain't in the mood for a tussle or a scuffle or a fight against a whole bunch of guys that want them dead, with a no-guns bird on his side. </p><p>  He breaks into a run, not even checking if Dick follows because if he wants to get messy, that's on him and Jason's not one to judge. But there the big bird is, running by his side and smiling like a loon. Like he just thought of the most brilliant thought in the history of thinkers, which is a tough competition will all the philosophers and all the other brainy friends. </p><p>  "You know," Dick grins and Jason's already regretting being able to hear, "this is - you're <em> kinda </em> like Shrek."</p><p>  He doesn't ponder on his answer, simply snarls and opens his mouth to say: "Fiona's more my type, <em>asshole.</em>"</p><p>  Laughing, Dick runs a tad bit faster, uses his grapple gun to help him climb and jump over the high fence. "I still need a Farquaad!"</p><p>  "Before you say it," doing the exact same thing (why explain it twice), Jason goes straight for his bike, letting the other sit glued to his back, "I've already considered it, Slade would be a <em> bad </em> Farquaad," Dick snorts, wrapping his arms around Jason's middle for purchase, and Jason absolutely breaks every speed law in the whole world while getting them the fuck away. "Too tall, muscly 'n his guns are definitely <em> not </em> for any compensation business. The man's packin', 's all I'm saying."</p><p>  There's a beat of almost silence, except they're mingling with traffic and there's also the noise of the engine, but yeah, silence as in: big bird's too shocked to give an immediate reply. Jason can't say he blames him, plus, he does like getting people to shut up one way or another.</p><p>  "<em>How</em>," he finally croaks out, "how do you know Slade is packing?!"</p><p>  "Wouldn't <em> you </em> like to know."</p><p>  "I, wh," Dick's spluttering is such a funny sound, "we are <em> so </em> talking about this!"</p><p>  Jason's enjoying this too much to just let it go for what it is. He physically needs to deliver a final blow. He's almost obligated by the law of the land.</p><p>  "For your consideration," he grins a feral grin, "<em>Luthor </em> is Farquaad."</p><p>  Grayson (ah, remember the confusing amount of he? This is another example) almost falls off the bike and right into an oncoming truck. Almost, because at the last second he secures his grip and curses in many languages that won't be mentioned.</p><p>  "Jason!," his voice is high pitched with hysteria, "<em>I can't believe </em> - you, you are casually implying you've been with both- with- Deathstroke <em> and </em> Lex Luthor!"</p><p>  "I've been with none of them!," that's a lie, but honestly, does Dick need an honest confirmation? No. Does he truly need to know? Hm, what is that? <em> 'No'</em>, as well? Yeah, that's what he thought. "What do you take me for, <em> a slut?! </em> Are you slut shaming me, Grayson?!"</p><p> </p><p>  On this very fine day marked by mistakes Jason truly has no other option but to continue falling straight into them. Not that there's something truly straight about this, or maybe everything is as straight as an uncooked noodle that only needs a little bit of wet heat to go all wiggly.</p><p>  So Jason drives Dick to the Batcave, dumps him in there, really, before he turns around and drives back out because he doesn't feel like dealing with the big B himself. He figures he can count on Dick to do all the explaining. And he's not too mistaken except there <em> is </em> one oversight, though who can blame him?</p><p>  No one actually expects this kind of betrayal. Who would act in such cold blood, without shadow of a doubt, determined to get this done come hell or come shine? All of this without keeping in mind both their shared history and their history that isn't shared because they used incognito tabs to be parallels to reach other?</p><p>  Really, how could've Jason predicted Dick would have the gall, the balls, the mind, to open both Luthor's and Slade's files while the big boss himself is too occupied to ask what he's doing? How could've Jason imagined it was anywhere near the realm of their reality that Dick would be such a dingus as to <em> update the files </em> with the following, damning, dilapidating sentence:</p><ul>
<li>Has had intimate sexual encounters with Jason Todd, aka Red Hood. (Chances of repeat encounters happening in the future: ?)</li>
</ul><p>  Really, how could've Jason forgotten this: information is power, you idiot, and you just handed in a golden egg without thinking twice about it?</p><p>  And this is how the plot carries on.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  He resurfaces from the mess of blankets in the bed to snatch his phone from the bedside table just when it is about to fall from the edge. Pressing the lock button at the side of the device once, his soul packs up his bags and heads for the nearest soul train station over the sheer number of notifications received in less than twenty minutes.</p><p>  Either someone died (probability: high), there's a world crisis (probability: not as high), or they have finally discovered he's the one writing the technically too accurate Superman with Batman stories with all the good sex scenes (probability: fuck, did I forget about Oracle's birthday and this is her revenge?).</p><p>  (The stories are an ongoing joke shared with no other than Roy Harper who, in turn, writes about the feared Green Arrow and the hottest -in their humble, 'we are both really into thighs', opinion, Green Lantern, Hal Jordan, in the stories named as Hank Bolton, with Oliver Queen as Owen Queer. Roy got a little too invested in his first story and he's building his whole writing universe off it, which also includes sideverses where Owen is Odessa and Hank is Hanna. In those they do manage to live together after going through an assorted amount of trials and tribulations until their love for each other finally wins over, so they share Odessa's family mansion where they make sweet sweet love, like in chapter eighteen when Hanna discovers that-)</p><p>  Jason snaps back to reality when a muscular arm surrounds his waist, dragging him back under the covers and right into a broad and warm chest, covered by a fine sexy dust of silver hair. Jason can't say he never thought he'd be into that because that would make him a liar. Not that he isn't, only that when he lies, he usually does it when he knows the lie will go undetected.</p><p>  "What is it, kid?," Slade huffs into the juncture of Jason's neck and shoulder, lips pressing against his skin (<em>yes, </em> there are several marks there).</p><p>  The action makes Jason relax even when his brain keeps sounding the alarm sirens. So he braces himself for it, unlocks his screen and-</p><p>  And he would truly like to bask in the novelty of the sound of Slade's laughter but he <em> can't </em> when all the notifications are several missed calls and well over two hundred messages like:</p><p>[Steph, 3.26pm] <em> ARE YOU FOR REALLLLL </em></p><p>[Steph, 3.26pm] <em> IK WE HAVENT TALKED MUCH B4 BUT DUUUUUDE, YOU TAPPED LEX?????? LUTHOR???? </em></p><p>  Like:</p><p>[Big Asshole, 3pm] <em> Jason, we need to talk. </em></p><p>  Like:</p><p>[Tim, 3.30pm] <em> Slade I understand, but Luthor? </em></p><p>[Tim, 3.32pm] <em> Tho I guess having somthing w him guarantees a more in depth string of info. Like, if hes hiding worrying amounts of kryptonite, for starters, &amp; where would he be hiding that. Yknow. The usual. </em></p><p>  The most worrying is the last text he gets just as he's going through the horror of the others.</p><p>[Barb, 4.42pm] <em> Is this why Roman Sionis has been so interested in you and your ass? </em></p><p>  "I want to die," he says. Slade enjoys his suffering, the bastard. See if he gives him any head now just for that.</p><p> </p><p>  (He only sends Dick Grayson a message that reads: <em> Et tu, Brutus?) </em></p><p> </p><p>  He spends the rest of the time ignoring Slade asking him about Roman. Who cares about that bastard. That's the real Lord Farquaad right there (if Lord Farquaad had a fetish for leather and designer suits).</p><p>  But he eventually caves in, like, hours later and after he's well into his third pack of beers because<em> fuck </em> going to patrol tonight. He can already hear Bruce trying to talk to him about who he decides to share a bed with like he's the one to talk when Bruce's like fucking Barry Allen and has too much history with too many of his rogues. If Bruce ever tries to talk about this, Jason will simply point at Damian. That should shut him up long enough for Jason to flee the room.</p><p>  Anyways. He caves in. He flops down on the couch where Slade is reading over the files for his new contract, one that will have him in a different continent for the next few weeks, and Jason just sighs.</p><p>  "Unfair. 'S unfair."</p><p>  "What is it?"</p><p>  "Y'know. That they wanna shame me for fucking bastards. 'S not like I'm fucking <em> Roman.</em>"</p><p>  Slade hums, flipping through the files in his tablet before he sets it aside just so he can pull Jason on top of his lap. </p><p>  "And do you want to fuck Roman, Jason?," he asks, eye intense and calculating, hands tugging on the elastic of Jason's sweatpants. </p><p>  "<em>Fuck no,</em>" he says strongly and with conviction, arms moving to Slade's shoulders, already beginning to roll his hips because they <em> had </em> been interrupted during the afternoon and he kind of laments the missed chance of getting off. "He's an <em> asshole.</em>"</p><p>  Slade snorts. "You only sleep with assholes, kid."</p><p>  He knows, but <em>hey.</em></p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>if anyone's wondering, luthor is prince charming and dick's the closest to donkey here</p></blockquote></div></div>
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